


The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist (1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [144]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Presents, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 22:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11366814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A woman repeatedly sees the ghost of a man killed in a railway accident years ago, and then meets the same end herself – but is her killer more corporeal than spiritual? Sherlock goes to rural Buckinghamshire and finds out.





	The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist (1895)

Foreword: In this fast-changing world of ours, the Brill Tramway, mentioned in this story, became the most outlying part of the the newly-formed London Underground system three years back, only to close last year (1935). Its original plan to provide a second route between London, the Chilterns and Oxford had never materialized; rival lines took much of its business and the growing road industry took the rest. Westcott Station is now quiet, with little sign of either the unfortunate accident or the horrible crime that both happened there.

+~+~+

The boy who called at Baker Street that cold early February morning was about sixteen years of age, and holding what I recognized as a set of my own works. Unfortunately he had missed Sherlock, who had gone to his parents' house for the day (much against his will, I might add). The boy introduced himself as Master Ionel Black, and I apologized for my friend's untimely absence.

“I know that you document all his cases, doctor”, my visitor said politely. “Indeed, I was only able to persuade Mother to let me come her by telling her that I wished you to sign my books for me. She does not know the real reason for my visit.”

He realized a moment too late that he had more or less insulted me, and reddened.

“Not that I do not want you to”, he said, covering his _faux pas_ with impressive speed. “In fact, it is better if you do, otherwise Mother will suspect.”

I smiled at his embarrassment.

“Pray take a seat, Master Black”, I said, gesturing to the table. “Mr. Holmes will not be back until late this evening, but I am sure that I can pass on such details as you wish to provide. I presume that you require his help on a case?”

To my surprise, the boy frowned.

“It is not that easy”, he said. “You see, doctor, at the moment all I have is suspicions.”

“Suspicions as to what?” I asked patiently. 

I was most definitely not prepared for his reply.

“I think that my father is planning to murder my mother.”

+~+~+

It was perhaps fortuitous that Mrs. Harvelle chose that moment to bring in coffee and cakes, with an orange juice for my young guest. It gave me time to recover from his shocking statement.

“You had better tell me everything”, I said grimly. “I will write it all down, and if Mr. Holmes chooses to take the case, he will find a way of contacting you as and when he needs further details.”

My young guest nodded, and began.

“My mother and I have come down today from the village of Westcott, in Buckinghamshire”, he said, “where my father is the stationmaster. I should explain that it is no ordinary railway; the Brill Tramway has steam engines now, but they can barely manage much more than walking pace.”

“Why are you in London?” I asked. “Your mother, I meant.”

“I have to buy some new clothes, and get some new books”, he explained. “My school is closed just for today as part of the roof gave way after last night's storm, and Mother picked me up on her way. She, like me, is an ardent follower of your stories, which is why I received an angel name; my father just calls me Ian. She is however inordinately shy, and said that she would wait in the restaurant across the street whilst I came in.”

“Tell me what makes you think.... er, what you think”, I said inelegantly.

“I have to go back a bit”, he said. “About twenty years ago, the great house at Waddesdon was built not far from us, and they brought in most of the material on the tramway. I found a newspaper article in the library from the time, which told me what had happened. There is a level-crossing just outside my house; there are no gates, of course, it being a tramway. One day, a local man was cycling along the road and tried to cut in front of a goods train coming down from Quainton. He did not make it.”

As it happened I knew a little of this, as the railway in question had been opened on All Fools' Day of 1871, and many people had thought the idea of someone called Richard Plantagenet Campbell Temple-Nugent-Brydges-Chandos-Grenville, 3rd Duke of Buckingham and Chandos, starting a horse-drawn railway in that day and age was clearly some sort of joke.

“Horrible!” I said, wondering just where all this was going.

“I know you think me rambling, but what started last year makes the history part important”, the boy said patiently, as if I were the child that needed things explaining by a condescending adult. I bit back a smile. “Mother was looking out of the upstairs bedroom window one day when she saw a cyclist waiting by the crossing. She thought it odd, as there was no train due so she went down to investigate – but the man had vanished!”

I waited, sensing that there was more. There was.

“Since then, my mother has seen the cyclist some three times”, the boy said. “On the second occasion, my father was upstairs in their room with her, but he saw nothing. Or so he said.”

I caught up with my note-taking before asking my question.

“Why, in your opinion, would your father lie?”

The boy hesitated.

“You must be honest”, I pressed gently. “Lots of facts come out during one of my friend's investigations, sometimes unpleasant ones. You can trust me.”

“I know that I can”, he said stoutly. “There is a female – I do not use the term 'lady', as she is none - in the village, a Mrs. Birkin. A divorcée; her husband died some years back, and I heard that she benefited from one of those life insurance policies as they had only recently had a son. I fear that she and my father have some sort of.... Understanding, and that Father may be planning to take advantage of the fact that Mother has a weak heart.”

The look on the boy's face was one of sheer disgust. I thought for a moment.

“You say that the spot where your mother saw the cyclist is by the level-crossing”, I said at last. “Can you draw me a sketch of the area, so that we can see what is where? Mr. Holmes would find that useful, I am sure.”

I handed him a sheet of paper from my notebook, and he slowly drew something, carefully labelling each item. When he had finished, he passed it over to me; I fought the temptation to write '10/10' at the bottom.

“Did your mother see the cyclist from the same upstairs window each time?” I asked.

“No”, he said. “One time she was in my bedroom, and the other three times her own. But she was always upstairs, and my father was always in the house. We have studied statistical probability at school, so that seems unlikely to me.”

“How long, in seconds, do you think it would take for your mother to go from either bedroom to a point outside where she could see the cyclist directly?” I asked.

The boy thought about that one. 

“I think about forty seconds”, he said. “Maybe thirty if she was hurrying. There is a very sharp turn in our stairs, so one cannot run down them, plus the door opens to the other side of the house. And she is... um, not a fast runner.”

Another good save, I thought. I tried to think of what else Sherlock would have asked – probably lots of things. 

“Mr. Holmes may wish to go and see the area”, I said, “and he always tries to get a feel for the people involved. Can you jot down the basic physical characteristics of your mother, father, Mrs. Birkin and anyone else you think important? Age, build, the way they look, anything.”

He took several sheets, and I perused the Times whilst he finished his task.

“Where do you go to school?” I asked once he was done. “Because if you are right, I dare say that it might be better for Mr. Holmes to contact you there rather than at home.”

“Aylesbury Grammar”, the boy said. “Do you really think that Mr. Holmes might look into this for me?”

He looked extremely hopeful. I smiled in reassurance.

“My friend takes cases on interest, not on the sort of person who asks”, I said. “Young or old, rich or poor, noble or tea-lady, he makes no distinction. Either way, I am sure that he will contact you shortly.”

+~+~+

Sherlock arrived back late that afternoon in the expected poor mood – whole family events rarely passed off well in the Holmes household, I knew from experience. Mrs. Harvelle had, with her usual foresight, prepared one of his favourite meals for his return, kippers with buttered bread, and I let him finish his meal and spend some little time dozing in front of the the fire before mentioning my recent visitor. It struck me as I looked at him napping in his chair how domestic this all was, and I felt a fuzzy warmth that, something told me, had little to do with the blazing fire.

My friend woke up after an hour looking refreshed, and I explained the case to him. He was pleased with the notes and map I had assembled, and said that he would definitely look into it.

“I think we may start by considering Mr. Black's accomplice”, he said, sipping his third cup of coffee (the man had an iron bladder, I swear!). I looked at him in surprise.

“Accomplice?” I asked.

“Your notes state that he was in the house when his wife saw the cyclist”, he observed. “Therefore clearly someone else must be involved. It cannot be Mrs. Birkin, because from the boy's description of her – well done for getting him to list physical characteristics of all the main players, by the way – she is most definitively female. But the boy said that she does have a son from her first marriage, a Master George Birkin, who is only a little younger than he himself. Doubtless that boy would benefit from his mother making a new alliance.”

“You are taking the case?” I asked. He nodded.

“I shall go to Buckinghamshire tomorrow”, he announced. “Are you free to come with me?”

“Always!” I said fervently.

+~+~+

We spent the evening at the theatre, where we saw the première of Mr. Oscar Wilde's fascinating new play _“The Importance of Being Earnest”_. I found it highly amusing, and it even drew a smile from Sherlock, which I was pleased to see. 

We hurried into 221B from our cab, glad to be out of the biting winter cold. It had not snowed for some time, but the sharp drop in temperature and leaden grey skies boded ill for the morrow. I was surprised when, on entering our rooms, I found a parcel waiting for me. Sherlock looked at it, and smiled.

“That would be your birthday present”, he said, looking pleased. “I had to send for it to be altered because they not only dispatched the wrong size the first time, but their second effort had a small tear in it.”

I smiled at him, and having shrugged off my coat set to opening the bulky parcel. Inside I found a wonderfully thick winter coat, so much better than the one I had just been wearing. It was leather, with soft, almost silky insides. My income from my stories was such that I could probably have afforded such a thing myself nowadays if I had wanted, but it had become a tradition for him to buy one for me.

“It is wonderful!” I said, smiling at him. “Thank you.”

“It looks good on you”, he said, clearly pleased at my reaction. “Though of course, I prefer you in rather fewer clothes.”

I blushed, and mercifully Mrs. Harvelle's maid Milly chose that moment to arrive with our hot chocolates. And an irritating and far too knowing smirk, damn the girl!

+~+~+

I had some doubts as I stood before Sherlock's door an hour or so later – the poor man had been yawning a lot, clearly tired out by his day – but I wanted this badly enough to ignore that. I knocked at the door, and at his call to enter, did so. He was as usual lying naked in his bed, and looked up at me with a welcoming smile. Then his face changed, first to one of surprise, then to what was most definitely lust.

“You are wearing the coat!” he growled.

I was. Wearing the coat. And nothing else. I moved quickly to the bed – the coldness of the room did not make me inclined to linger – and got myself under the covers, covering him with my body whilst the coat hung over both of us. He wrapped his arms round me inside of it, and sighed contentedly.

“John....” he said softly.

“I know you're tired”, I said. “And I just want this. The two of us, holding each other. My perfect mate. My Sherlock.”

Even in the darkness, I knew that he was smiling. He eased us both onto our sides, the coat still an extra blanket over us both, and pulled me even closer before slipping into a deep sleep. I followed him in seconds, safe and contended in his strong arms.

+~+~+

The next morning, we decamped to Paddington Station and caught a train to Aylesbury, where Sherlock planned to talk to young Master Black. However, on presenting ourselves at the school office, we were told that he was not there.

“Such a tragedy!” the secretary sniffed. “The poor boy's mama was killed this morning, and he was summoned home.”

“Killed?” I said, shocked. “How, pray?”

“Run over by a train.”

Sherlock and I looked silently at each other. 

“Who came for the boy, may I ask?” he said.

“His uncle, down from Buckingham”, she said. “I understand that they took the poor lady to Waddesdon Police Station.”

“Thank you, ma'am”, Sherlock said, before we hurried away.

My heart sank. We had come too late.

+~+~+

We took a carriage to Waddesdon, where we found the sergeant in charge of the small local police station looking overwhelmed.

“This is _not_ what I signed on for!” he sighed once we had introduced ourselves. “I've had those two men at each other's throats all morning, and I had to threaten to lock them in the cells to cool down so they would go away. They were still arguing when they left, even!”

“Sergeant Tompkins”, Sherlock said calmingly. “My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am a consulting detective. This is my friend and colleague Doctor John Watson.”

The man's eyes widened. I could well imagine that he had just mentally downgraded his day from 'terrible' to 'even worse'.

“You think..... there is foul play here?” he almost gasped.

“First, who are the two gentlemen who you had such trouble with?” Sherlock asked gently.

“Mr. David Black, the victim's husband, and Mr. Henry Fairhead, his brother-in-law and the victim's sister”, he said. “Mr. Black insisted that it was his wife's wish that she be cremated, but Mr. Fairhead was just as firm that there should be an examination first. Mr. Black has returned to Westcott to fetch his late wife's will, as he says that she most clearly states her wishes in that document.”

“When is he due back?” Sherlock asked. The sergeant checked his watch.

“Not for best part of an hour, I'd reckon”, he said. “He only left fifteen minutes ago; my ears have just stopped ringing!”

“Would it be acceptable for the doctor to perform a quick examination?” Sherlock asked. “I know that it is irregular, but it is only fair to warn you that there is a strong suspicion this was no accident, and that Mr. Black himself may be a guilty party.”

The sergeant somehow managed to turn even paler. 

“Go right ahead, gentlemen”, he said. “But if Mr. Black returns, you'll have to hop it it out the back way, otherwise my it's neck that'll be on the line!”

Sherlock smiled, and we were ushered through to a cold, empty room at the back of the station where the body of the late Mrs. Black lay on a long table. The _post mortem_ was not my area of expertise, but I had done more than most town doctors, and I quickly got to work.

+~+~+

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Black had still not returned, and Sherlock, the sergeant and I were sat round a table in another room. 

“Death occurred sometime between the hours of five and seven this morning”, I said. “I cannot be more accurate than that, I am afraid, although if pushed, I would incline to later rather than earlier in that time span.”

“What time is the first train?” Sherlock asked.

The sergeant had already fetched a timetable for us. 

“Through Westcott, there is one due at six fifty-five”, he said. “Round these parts, it was dark but with some dawn-light. Service on this line is pretty unreliable, but that train would likely have been on time as it has to connect with the London express.”

“Cause of death?” Sherlock asked. 

“I cannot be sure”, I admitted. “Clearly from the damage to the body, she was struck by a heavy object not moving particularly fast. It could have been a slow-moving train. Or she could have been placed by the tracks when the train came through. It is also possible that the body was moved subsequent to death, because of the lividity.”

“Because of the what?” the sergeant asked, confused.

“Blood settles after death”, I explained. “The state of the skin suggests that the impact most likely occurred after the blood had begun to settle. And finally, there is the possibility that she was smothered.”

The sergeant took a long drink of his tea, glaring at it as if he felt that he needed something stronger.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“There is some discolouration around the lips”, I said, “more than I would have expected. But I am sorry. I cannot be certain.”

“That may be enough”, Sherlock said. “Sergeant, do you know where Mr. Fairhead went?”

“I believe that he is staying at the vicarage in Westcott”, the sergeant said. “He knows the vicar through his late sister.”

“Then we must adjourn there with all speed”, Sherlock said. “Sergeant, you must _not_ release that body, regardless of any document that Mr. Black can provide. If – when he asks, tell him that the body can be released only when the will has been certified by a police lawyer, and you cannot get one down here until this afternoon at the earliest.”

We left in a hurry.

+~+~+

Westcott turned out to be a charming village, less than a mile from the main road between Aylesbury and Bicester, yet in a world of its own. It was stretched out along a single street, except for the church and a smattering of houses along its sole side-road. The tramway cut across the main road a little way south of the village, with only the stationmaster's house anywhere near it. It was a typical English village scene, marred only by the heavy grey leaden skies that threatened more snow to add to the light covering that had not yet melted. 

We presented ourselves at the vicarage, and were soon introduced to Master Black's uncle, Mr. Henry Fairhead. I liked the fellow at once; he not only lived up to his name but there was an honest, open expression about him that marked him out as a decent human being. He was also seemingly not surprised at our interest in the case.

“Ionel said that he wanted to bring you in”, he sighed. “I am only sorry that it was not sooner. The boy is sleeping upstairs now; after all the to-do I felt that he needed some rest. My brother-in-law has doubtless returned to the police station to demand that his wife be cremated, so that he can hide the evidence.”

“You think him to be guilty?” Sherlock asked.

“I am sure of it!” the man said. “But there is no proof.”

“Do you have a key to his house?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“Then we may have to indulge in a little breaking and entering”, Sherlock said. “Let us hope that the sergeant indulges my request, and keeps Mr. Black busy.”

+~+~+

We walked down to the tramway station, the only incident occurring when a large middle-aged woman and a boy both very pointedly stared at us all as we passed them on the other side of the road.

“Mrs. and Master Birkin”, Mr. Fairhead explained. “They know that I am aware of their little game.”

The lady scowled at us, even though she almost certainly had no idea who we were. We passed on, and were soon at the station which was a decidedly mean affair. Not even a platform as such, just a gravelled area with a name-board, a rudimentary waiting-shelter and a storage hut by the crossing. Sherlock seemed particularly interested in the latter, for some reason. 

“Well, at least I have solved the mystery of how the 'ghost' disappeared”, he said, much to my surprise.

“How?” I asked.

He gestured to the back of the small shed, and we both saw immediately that the lock on the building, which I had thought to be out of use from its battered appearance, had been forced. Sherlock pointed to the floor. 

“Cycle tyre impressions”, he said in a low voice. “And one complete footprint of someone who wears those fashionable if uncomfortable square-toed boots. Which we all saw young Master Birkin wearing in the street.”

“So _he_ was the 'ghost' that Ionel talked about!” Mr. Fairhead exclaimed. “The bastard!”

“That connects him to the crime, but not his mother or your brother-in-law”, Sherlock said as we walked over to the Blacks' house. “We shall search outside, but I fear that we may have to break into your sister's house.”

“What are we looking for?” Mr. Fairhead asked.

“A piece of cloth, anything from the size of a flannel upwards”, Sherlock said. “I rather fear that it may have been burnt, but if you find anything like it, do not touch it. It is evidence.”

He nodded, and the three of us set about searching the property grounds.

+~+~+

As Sherlock had suspected we did not find what he was looking for, and after ten minutes he decided to risk breaking into the house itself, which he managed with his usual (and worrying) ease. Once inside, he split us up to cover more ground, and it was only five minutes later before Mr. Fairhead called to us from the kitchen. We hurried to meet him, and found him staring at a drawer, from which something made of cloth protruded. Sherlock carefully opened the drawer, then using a pair of washing-tongs extracted what turned out to be a scarf. He held it out to me.

“Don't touch, just sniff”, he ordered.

I did, and my head span.

“Chloroform”, I managed once my head had cleared. “A powerful dose, to still be so detectable hours on from when it must have been used.”

“We need to get out of here”, Sherlock said. He found a paper bag from another drawer and dropped the scarf into it, then ushered us out of the house before turning to Mr. Fairhead.”

“Sir”, he said flatly, “I know now that your brother-in-law murdered his wife, your sister, and I know how it was done. And above all, _I can prove it_. Would you care to accompany us to Waddesdon Police Station so we can confront him?”

Mr. Fairhead smiled.

“Sir, I would be honoured!” he said firmly.

+~+~+

We arrived back at the police station to find that Mr. Black gone, although the sergeant assured us we would not have to wait long for his return.

“He spoke the truth about his wife's wish to be cremated”, the policeman admitted ruefully, “but I still wouldn't release him the body. So he went to telegraph his lawyer to come have a go at me.”

“A good lawyer may well be what he needs”, Sherlock smiled. “We shall wait.”

+~+~+

Another hour passed, and Mr. Black arrived back at the police station with his lawyer, a man called Mr. Amadeus Jukes. It was a tight fit getting six grown men into the interview room, but we just managed it.

“Sir”, Mr. Jukes began in a nasally voice that reminded me instantly of a railway station announcer, “I _demand_ that you release my client's late wife to him, so that he may respect her final and most clearly stated wishes.”

“Whilst the sergeant would normally comply with such a request”, Sherlock said smoothly, “there are certain difficulties that prevent his acting in this case.”

The lawyer looked down his overly long nose at him.

“And what might they be?” he demanded archly.

“That your client killed his wife, and is attempting to have her cremated to hide the evidence.”

There was a stunned silence in the room, before Mr. Black spoke harshly.

“There are laws of libel and slander in this country, Mr. Holmes”, he ground out. “I would be careful, if I were you.”

“Libel and slander only apply if the statement is untrue”, Sherlock said. “You murdered your wife, sir - _and I can prove that for a fact!_ ”

Another silence, which this time was broken by Sherlock himself.

“You had decided to rid yourself of your wife so that you could marry Mrs. Birkin, who is quite wealthy in her own right”, Sherlock said. “You began by trying to unnerve your wife, by having Mrs. Birkin's son dress as the ghost of a man killed on the nearby tramway crossing.”

“Poppycock!” Mr. Black snorted.

“Young Mr. Birkin was able to disappear by waiting until he knew he was being watched – always from the upstairs rooms, and always with you in a position to send a warning – then carrying his bicycle to the storage shed and hiding himself and it inside until Mrs. Black had gone away”, Sherlock said. “However, he was careless. He left a footprint which matches the square-toed boots that he still wears, and there were also cycle marks in the area, where he rested the bike whilst opening the door.”

The man had gone rather red.

“Your son Ionel decided to call me in on the case”, Sherlock said. “Unfortunately for her, your wife mentioned to you that he had called at Baker Street to get his books signed by the doctor here. You realized the implications of such a move, and decided to act quickly. You were also fortunate in your wife's request for cremation, which you expected would hide the evidence of your misdeeds.”

Mr. Black shuddered, but said nothing.

“At sometime around six o'clok this morning, Master Birkin came to your house. You had invented an excuse to rise early, and let him in. You then went upstairs and heavily chloroformed your wife. That was where you made your major mistake. You threw the cloth that you used into the kitchen drawer.”

Sherlock drew the bag containing the cloth out of his pocket, and placed it on the table. Mr. Black seemed to sag even further.

“I do not know exactly what you did next”, Sherlock admitted. “It is my belief that you and Master Birkin carried your wife's limp body out of the house and threw it up against the single wagon that was in the siding at the station. You then suffocated her, hoping that her death would look like she had wandered out to investigate the 'ghost' and that she, too, had been struck by a train.”

“No proof”, the man growled. “A few marks on the ground and an old rag? So what?”

Sherlock leant forward.

“You are seemingly unaware”, he almost purred, “that even if they are unconscious, when you suffocate someone by closing off their air supply, there is a strong probability that a piece of cloth gets caught in that airway?”

The man stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, then slumped in his chair. 

“You wait!” he snarled angrily. “I'll get off. You'll see!”

+~+~+

“I do not remember seeing any cloth fragments in the dead lady's airway”, I observed as we left the station that day.

“There were none”, he said dryly. I stared at him in shock.

“But you said that there were!” I insisted.

“No”, he replied. “What I _actually_ said was they were there in most cases. I can hardly be blamed for Mr. Black assuming the worst, can I now?”

The devious bastard!

+~+~+

Mr. Black's belief in the elasticity of the British justice system turned out to be fatally misplaced. He was duly convicted for the murder of his wife, and hung before the year was out. It was not the evidence that did for him, little enough as it was, but the decision of Master Birkin, when he realized that his own life might be on the line, to turn on his mother and her lover. It spared his own miserable neck, but he still qualified for spending a couple of decades at Her Majesty's pleasure for his part in the foul deed. His scheming mother was jailed for three years as an accomplice, after which she 'repaid' her son's treachery by selling everything and emigrating to parts unknown, leaving him behind. Young Master Black moved to Buckingham to reach adulthood under his uncle's care, where as Mr. Ionel Fairhead he duly prospered and is now a manager at a bank in that town.

+~+~+

Next, a meeting with an old friend turns out unexpectedly for me, and Sherlock and I end up back where we started.


End file.
